She stares at the t-shirt draped over her chair. A replica Eames deserves better than Metallica. Of all the things for him to leave behind!
Clasped like Excalibur, a knife thrusts up from a toilet, Metal up your ass written beneath. Who would think of something like that? Who would print it? Worse still, who would wear it? She knows the answer to the last, having argued with him before countless dinner parties, Sunday barbecues, visits from her mother.
She swats at the shirt as she would a spider, gets slapped in the face by Armani as it falls. Now it lurks on the floor, one more dead thing in a week of dead things, until her kick sends it skidding under their her bed.
Hours later she listens to it whisper as sleep refuses her haven. If she lies just so her mind can ignore it, until a stray breeze blows a trace to her nose. She climbs from bed to hunt naked in the fragmented moonlight. The shirt is a cool breath on feverish skin, and she surrenders to heavy metal dreams.
Ryan Stone
Another gem, Ryan.
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Thank you, Sarah 🙂 How are you?
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A very enjoyable piece Ryan, and your grand finale had me clutching my sheets. ” The shirt is a cool breath on feverish skin, and she surrenders to heavy metal dreams.”
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G’day, Ivor. Thanks so much, mate. I hope things are well in your world.
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it’s haunting her. nicely done, ryan
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Thank you, Beth 🙂
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Reblogged this on Go Dog Go Café and commented:
Amanda’s pick for Pay It Forward Thursday
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How many of us have not worn our lover’s shirt to bed to feel the closeness when one is alone? Lovely!
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Ah, you know the feeling too. Thanks, Holly 🙂
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Oh yes. 😊
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